Master Marksman

Rhaella hadn't expected Viserys to still be so fixated on going to war.

And this time, he had come prepared—clearly having coaxed information from Ser Gerold.

"Viserys, I know you're eager to see battle, but you've only just begun your training," Rhaella tried to comfort her son. "Like we said before, if you go, Ser Gerold and the others would be too distracted looking after you…"

"So you're saying that as long as my skills are recognized, I'll be allowed to fight?" Viserys asked, looking up at her.

"Yes," Rhaella smiled, sensing her words had made an 'impact.' "Once your martial skills reach a certain level, of course you'll go to war."

After all, "recognized skill" was a subjective measure. As long as she and the Kingsguard agreed in private, they could ensure Viserys wouldn't step onto the battlefield unless truly necessary.

But standing nearby, Willem had the sense that something didn't feel quite right.

Viserys pointed at the dragonbone longbow hanging on the wall and said, "If I can hit that lemon out in the courtyard from here using that bow, you have to let me join Ser Gerold."

"A lemon?" Rhaella leaned over to glance outside at the lemon tree. It was at least two hundred meters away.

And the bow? Its drawstring was not only incredibly stiff, but with Viserys's current arm length, he couldn't possibly draw it fully.

Which meant he'd need at least a few more years—until his body matured—to even consider handling it.

She cast a sidelong look at Gerold, as if seeking his input. Gerold gave a subtle nod. They might as well agree—give Viserys a goal so difficult it would keep him focused on training and not on war.

"Very well," Rhaella said with a coaxing tone, "if you can hit the lemon from this room with that bow, you may go to war."

"Great! Then I want to try right now," Viserys said eagerly.

With archery skills at the level of a seasoned warrior, he could hit that lemon with his eyes closed. If only he'd been reborn a few years older—fifteen or sixteen—and this whole matter would be far less troublesome.

To indulge his enthusiasm, the others cleared the space for him.

Willem even personally handed him an arrow—nearly as tall as Viserys's chest when held upright.

To him, it was more like a short spear.

And the longbow? It stood taller than his head!

Viserys stood at the window, sizing up the bow and arrow. To everyone watching, it seemed impossible for him to even nock the arrow, let alone shoot it.

Still, they figured a little humiliation might not be bad—at least it would give him a concrete goal to work toward.

"Ser Willem," said Arthur, "I suggest we include archery training in His Grace's daily routine. It'll help build his upper strength as well."

"I'll see to it, Ser Arthur," Willem nodded, studying Viserys's frame and thinking perhaps a smaller bow should be crafted for him.

"Don't worry if you can't draw it yet, Viserys," Rhaella said, settling down with the help of a maid. "Just wait until you grow a bit taller."

No one expected Viserys to actually get an arrow off—as long as he didn't hurt himself, it was fine.

But to everyone's astonishment, Viserys turned, smiled at them, stepped on the bow with one foot, and pulled the string with both hands—managing to draw the longbow!

"Your Grace is quite clever," Arthur murmured with admiration.

Viserys stood on one leg, perfectly stable, without the slightest tremble.

Despite the unconventional form, the longbow was fully drawn—then came a sharp *SWISH!*.

The long arrow cut through the air, leaving a white trail in its wake, and cleanly knocked a lemon the size of a fist from the branch.

Willem, closest to him, stood frozen.

Though they already knew Viserys had an extraordinary talent for swordplay, none of them had expected his skill with a bow to be this formidable.

Even with the strange form, everything from his aim to his release showed precision no novice should possess. Arthur and the others, previously indifferent, now began to doubt their own eyes.

"He actually hit it?" Gerold murmured to himself, instinctively touching the palm of his hand.

That same hand had once been pierced by an arrow, forcing him to temporarily yield command of the Kingsguard to Arthur.

Arthur, meanwhile, looked at Viserys with sparkling eyes. He suddenly felt that Viserys might grow to be even more exceptional than Rhaegar.

In Viserys, he saw a reflection of himself.

In Westeros, Arthur Dayne was regarded as a Sword Saint. He had been swinging a wooden sword before he could even walk.

At ten, he bested his father's guards. By thirteen, he had no rivals.

Though Rhaegar was talented in his own right, the only reason he defeated Arthur at the tourney at Harrenhal was because the two had arranged it beforehand.

To make the act convincing, Arthur had even broken twelve lances.

"Well? Did he hit it?" Rhaella asked softly from behind her tea, noticing the odd expressions on everyone's faces.

"Your Grace… His Grace… hit the target," Willem replied, his shock still visible.

"He hit it?" Rhaella nearly jumped to her feet, prompting the maid beside her to frantically assist her.

At that moment, a guard entered, holding the lemon with the arrow embedded in it. Rhaella accepted it in silence, speechless.

She looked toward Gerold and the others for confirmation, as if to ask: Did he really shoot this?

They all nodded in affirmation.

"Well, Mother," Viserys said, "Ser Gerold, can I go to war with you now?"

.......

Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, and commander of the Redwyne Fleet, enjoyed disguising himself and inspecting his troops before battles—it gave him insight into their morale.

With a squire in tow, he approached a group of chatting soldiers.

One of the younger ones said, "Just a fortnight ago we were fighting rebels, and now we're off to war with the Targaryens? I don't understand what these lords are thinking."

The soldier looked to be just over twenty.

That age when a man begins to question the world, though without yet finding the answers.

With time, and more war, such thoughts would fade into numbness.

A sharp-eyed older veteran across from him, around forty, replied, "Kid, don't think so hard. Honor, glory—those are for the lords. What do we have? Our bodies. Protecting yourself on the battlefield is the most important thing."

The seasoned soldier's words clearly irked Paxter's squire, who was about to speak when Paxter stopped him with a glance.

Then the young soldier asked again, "Do you think we'll win against the Dragonstone fleet?"

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